


Don't Think Of The Danger

by Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, His Last Vow, Jail, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Missing Scene, aborted confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 00:25:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket/pseuds/Willie_The_Plaid_Jacket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the Magnussen shooting, Sherlock is awaiting his fate and trying to come to terms with what what he's sacrificed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Think Of The Danger

**Author's Note:**

> The result of a dialogue prompt on tumblr from gahsofluffy, the prompt being: 'I'm not cut out for this.'

The cell they put him in isn’t dissimilar to the drunk tank he and John had been thrown into several months past. The same cold tiled walls, the same high barred window, the same uncomfortable stone slab of a bed. 

No John to keep him company this time, though. No slurred discussions over who would kip on the floor. No giggles and hiccups until they passed out. Not now and, if what Mycroft had told him came to fruition, possibly never again. The nausea that accompanies that thought forces Sherlock to perch himself on the edge of the ‘bed’ and focus on breathing steadily for a few moments. It becomes difficult to remind himself that all of this was supposed to be for John’s benefit when the idea of leaving him behind makes Sherlock want to scream until the guards have no choice but to let him out just to shut him up. 

It’s for John. This is all for John. The alternative is just as horrible. Worse. John is imprisoned too, separated from his wife and child for who knows how long. All because of Sherlock’s mistake.

No. His misjudgment of Moriarty had almost led to John paying the price, he wouldn’t allow it happen again. Sherlock has died for John before, what’s once more between friends?

There was a voice in the back of his head whispering the words from a song, something from a film he and John had watched once a long time ago. A man who died and came back, beckoned by a stranger called love. 

Love.

Sentiment.

God, he’d changed. Or perhaps not so much changed as adapted? He always had the potential to be the man he is now, Sherlock supposes, he’d just assumed it was an unnecessary potential to fulfill. Assumptions made without evidence, how foolish. He’d laugh if he didn’t think it would make him throw up.

Muffled voices on the other side of the thick steel door bring him back to the present. One of the voices must be the guard stationed by his cell, the other is clearly Lestrade. Keys jingle and the heavy lock clunks, followed by the slow scraping of metal on concrete as the door slides open to reveal the DI on the other side. Lestrade steps in, looking at Sherlock with something akin to defeat. He heaves a sigh and opens his mouth to offer what Sherlock presumes will be some kind of pointless apology. He must think better of it upon seeing the look on Sherlock’s face and instead merely says, “I can only give you five minutes.”

Five minutes for what, Lestrade doesn’t explain, he just turns and walks back out of the cell only to be replaced by a very tired John Watson. And suddenly Sherlock feels that the terror accompanying the prospect of never seeing John again is outweighed by the terror of only having five minutes to say everything he never has.

Sherlock stands immediately, the momentum of which almost carries him forwards a further step or two until he would be a foot and no more from John. Or perhaps it isn’t the momentum of his movements, perhaps it’s the momentum of his thoughts urging him to close the distance. Either way, he stays his ground.

John shifts, gaze scanning Sherlock from head to foot in three rapid glances.

“How are you?” John asks.

Of all the questions…

“Fine,” Sherlock lies. 

_Cold_ , he wants to say,  _tired, _lonely_. _

_Afraid._

John seems to come to half a decision and takes a step forward.

“We’ve only got five minutes,” he repeats in 0.89 seconds. 

Sherlock wants to tell him everything that is pointless about that statement but that in itself would be pointless so he stays quiet, waiting to see if John will continue.

“Mycroft says he’s sorting something out, some kind of deal.” 

Sherlock nods.

“He said if all goes to plan you won’t go to prison.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw… and nods.

John flexes his fingers before closing them into fists and gives a curt nod of his own.

“Good. That’s good.” He says to the wall above Sherlock’s left shoulder. 

Sherlock can’t be sure just how much Mycroft had divulged but from John’s reaction he knows it wasn’t the whole truth. For the best, he supposes.

Four minutes left and Sherlock has only said one word, and not a truthful one at that. He looks around the room, unable to focus on John, unable to focus at all. What could he say? How does one express the culmination of thoughts and feelings that have stewed for years to the man who helped make them known to oneself… in one fifteenth of an hour? The answer, it seems to Sherlock in that moment, is that he can’t. 

“John…” Sherlock says, for a need to say  _something_. “John I… I’m…”

“I’m not cut out for this.” The interruption throws Sherlock off and he looks at John whose eyes are turned to the floor. John’s mouth is a firm line that, coupled with the deep furrows of his brow, relay his frustration. 

_I’m not cut out for this_ , Sherlock echoes in his head,  _we’ve never been cut out for this kind of thing, you and I._

“For what?” Sherlock asks, needlessly. He’ll do this dance one more time, for old time’s sake. He’ll maneuver around their feelings again because it’s what they do best.

“For smiling and pretending everything is alright when it isn’t.”

Sherlock sees how deep the frustration in John goes as he says it… 

“For being a father.”

…and realises a moment too late… 

“For losing you again.”

…John’s chosen to skip this dance. 

He said the last with his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s and it knocks the breath out of Sherlock’s lungs. He can’t have got it wrong again.

“John,” Sherlock steps forward, “please understand, I…”

The cell door opens with a clatter and a scrape and Lestrade is once again in the doorway.

“That wasn’t five minutes.” Sherlock protests, eyes still on John.

“I’m sorry, it’s all I can give you.” Lestrade offers with open palms and look of regret.

“No, it wasn’t five minutes!” Sherlock very nearly shouts, but John has already broken eye contact and is moving back towards Lestrade.

Helpless. Sherlock feels helpless. He’s watching John walk away and he hasn’t said a thing. The nausea returns in full force and this time he fears it will get the better of him.

“Mycroft said we’ll see each other again,” John says as he turns to face Sherlock once more, flanked by Lestrade and the guard, “before… whatever comes next.” 

They hold each others’ gaze for a few fleeting seconds, John’s expressive face filled with a sympathy that Sherlock takes to mean he is to remain hopeful. Sherlock straightens his back and tilts his head in a minute nod. A second chance. He’ll hope for that. The corner of John’s mouth twitches before the door is shut and Sherlock is once again alone.

A second chance. 

A second chance to say what he’s always meant to, but never has. 


End file.
